


Box of Memories

by crism79



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode "Home", Episode Tag, Gen, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:43:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crism79/pseuds/crism79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a box holds more than just trinckets</p>
            </blockquote>





	Box of Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Before we move on to the story I wanted to thank my wonderful beta's!!! *hands them a virtual candy* lostandalone22 and evolia. Thank you for making this story readable! And I have to thank also to Sofia who read it first and told me it was worth something.

John sat on the bed of his rented apartment. His house, his home was gone and now everything that was left from his white picket-fenced life were memories and his children. That place where he was now wasn't home, and John doubted that he'd ever have one again. Home was where the heart was, they said. Well, his heart was broken, torn to pieces, and a big chunk of it had burned along with his house and his wife. The other part of it was with his two children, Sam and Dean, who now slept peacefully in that rented room that was temporary and didn't smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies or fresh flowers, something that Mary had always been very squeamish about. She always had to have fresh flowers in the house. And John had never understood the importance of it, or what happiness and freshness it brought to the house until the smell of burning paint, wood and flesh filled his nostrils and was all he could smell for weeks.

John looked at the electronic clock display on the nightstand and it read four am. Putting his head between his hands, John massaged the back of his neck. He was tired, and sleepy but he was probably going to be woken in a few minutes anyway. There was no use going back to bed if he was going to wake up again. And he had to be there, had to be alert.

Inadvertently, John's foot touched something metallic under the bed. He bent down and looked. There was a box there. He took it out and put it on his lap. It was faded blue and old. He wondered what it was and why it was there, then he remembered, Dean had snatched it from his hands when the things that were saved from their house were brought to them. John wondered what was inside the box that was so important to Dean. Probably some of his toys. He took the box and put it under the bed again, just where Dean had hidden it, and turned to look at his children.

Little Sammy was sleeping soundly, that baby's sleep that nothing seems to disturb. He wouldn't remember anything, of course, about the night his mother died, and John was thankful for that. At least Sam would be able to sleep without the vision of his mother pinned to the ceiling, bleeding and burning. John closed his eyes, trying to ban that image that haunted him so many times. If he hadn't fallen asleep on the couch. If he had been in bed with her. Or if he had been with Sammy. If. if.

John reached for Sammy and caressed his baby's hand, warm, small and soft. Holding on to his baby brother, his arm draped over Sam's belly was Dean, lying on his side, his hair too long, that Mary had never wanted to cut, covering his face. But John knew that Dean's sleep wasn't as peaceful and carefree.

Dean hadn't let Sam out of his sight ever since the fire. He hadn't spoken much either, which left John worried. The doctors said it was from the trauma, and that eventually he'd speak again. So John just waited and worried about other things. He did care for Dean, so much so that he was awake at that hour in the morning, waiting. Because although Dean looked like he was sleeping peacefully, John knew he would probably be waking up soon, screaming and drenched in sweat, shaking violently. It had happened almost every single night ever since the fire.

What seemed to calm him was Sam. Dean seemed to sleep better when the three of them shared the same bed. John always put Sam to sleep in the new crib the neighbors had bought to give him. And on those nights, Dean always woke up near four in the morning, thrashing in bed, screaming for Mom, Dad and Sam. John would wake up, reach out for Dean and cradle him. Dean would cry on John's shoulder until he fell asleep again. Then one night Sam had been crying in his crib and John didn't know what to do, so he'd taken him and laid him between himself and Dean. And while John slept, half-expecting to wake up, that night Dean didn't have any nightmares. His small index finger caught in Sammy's hand, Dean seemed to be really relaxed and sleeping better than he had in weeks.

Mary had never liked that Sam or Dean slept with them in their bed. She said that it gave them bad habits and it was a very rare occasion that she'd let it happen. So John didn't want to have Sam sleeping with them either. Dean had to because they still hadn't received the insurance money and were living in a rented apartment that only had one bed. But Sam slept in his crib just like Mary had wanted, except when he just didn't stop crying, or when John fell asleep feeding him his bottle. On those occasions Dean would take the bottle from John's slack hands, take Sam and lay him to sleep next to them. And John had started noticing that on those nights Dean didn't wake up in the middle of the night. But even if Dean didn't have bad dreams, John had enough for the both of them.

He sighed and ran a tired hand over his eyes. The dream was always the same. The blood, his wife, the fire engulfing Mary's body, and all John could do was stare in shock. Because it wasn't possible for someone to be stuck on a ceiling, he had to be crazy. Well, that's exactly what everyone was saying behind his back. It wasn't possible, it must be from the shock, doctors had even advised him to look for some counseling. John had dismissed everything. He knew what he'd seen and that was the thing that wasn't normal. He had started looking up in books, for answers, going to the town library, picking up old books about demons, and the supernatural. When books provided him little information he started turning to people for answers. Many looked at him strangely, even with their supposedly mystic powers, they shook their heads and would say that it had been a tragic event and sometimes our minds just played tricks, blocking the truth and masking it with unexplainable stuff. Others just thought he was simply insane.

Until he found her. He saw her add in the local newspaper and it was the last "sear" that he hadn't gone to. John had been starting to lose hope and question his sanity himself, when he went to find Missouri Mosley. John had gone to her with no hope, and when she had told him she believed him, that everything he'd seen was true and more, he had felt such a relieve wash over him, such a burden being lifted from his shoulders that he was forever in her debt. And Missouri had told him more, not only demons were real but most of the legends and myths that our granddads used to scare us with when we were kids were real too.

Evil.

It existed. Not only people that were capable of evil, but that pure evil the old books spoke of, and the preachers warned us about on Sunday Mass. Demons, witches, vampires, werewolves, everything, they were real and were among us. And that there were people, just like him or her that hunted them down. They were called hunters. Right then, while Missouri slowly opened his eyes to this whole new dark world, John knew what he was going to be. Right then he found a new purpose in his life besides raising his children in safety. He was going to hunt down the demon responsible for destroying his life. He was going to learn everything there was to learn about those creatures, find them and destroy them, make sure that none of them would hurt any one else. As far as he was concerned, no other family would go through what John and his boys were going through.

So John started collecting stories of strange occurrences from newspapers, magazines, books. Then he started trying to distinguish the signs of a probable case, where ghosts, poltergeists or other creatures could be involved, from "normal" police cases. John would take notes of everything, on the piece of paper available at the time, be it a post-it, or a napkin. Soon he had bits and pieces of paper all scattered and it wasn't easy to keep track of them especially with kids in the house, either they were written or not they could very well become a piece of art. The first time that happened John got really angry and had shouted at Dean. It was a bit of information he'd gotten in a book that wasn't easily accessible and it was covered in a multicoloured drawing. Dean had made a big effort not to cry as he heard John shouting about how he shouldn't have touched his things but stubborn tears insisted in coming to Dean's eyes as he stood rock still. Then seeing the tears welling up on his son's eyes, John had looked at the drawing and realised that he shouldn't be shouting. Dean had come running with the paper in his hand, very happy with a big wonderful smile that John hadn't seen in weeks and John had gotten angry with him.  
Just because Dean had used a piece of paper that had some notes to make a pretty drawing for his father. John had gotten on his knees and hugged Dean, apologizing over and over as he caressed Dean's head.

John shook his head, looked down at his lightly snoring son, snuggled up against his brother. Minutes ticked by and there was no sign that Dean was having nightmares. Once again, Sam was there so Dean was sleeping peacefully. It was better to catch some hours of sleep himself, Sam would wake up around seven to have his bottle.

John swung his legs into the bed and laid on his side his right arm encircling his two most precious things in this world and soon he was sleeping lulled by their steady breaths.

***

The next day John made a final decision. The things he'd learned in those couple of weeks, about all the creatures, all the evil that was out there and that everyone pretended did not exist, he couldn't close his eyes to it. He couldn't turn his back, not after what had happened to his wife. Anger burned inside him, so raw, so pure that sometimes he frightened himself. He just couldn't stand by and let another Mary die  
and other children being left without their mothers, with only nightmares to wake them for the rest of their lives. He was going to look for the thing that had killed his wife and on the way he was going to send to hell every evil creature he could find.

That morning before John left, he was eating breakfast and telling Dean what he was planning to do as if he was talking to Mary and not his four-year-old child. John said they'd be leaving the next day, he didn't know where they'd be going exactly, but they were going to get in the car and leave that place. Asked Dean if he could pack Sam's things and his son had nodded. Then John had said that he was going out to collect the insurance money, and he also had to stop by the shop and say that he was leaving. He really expected Dean to have everything prepared when he got back. Then Dean had hopped from his chair and ran towards the room. He was there for a while and John wondered if Dean had already started packing without finishing his breakfast. Then the blonde head appeared again at the door carrying the blue box in his hands and handed it to John.

"What's this?" John asked puzzled taking the old box in his hands.

"Mommy, Daddy, Sammy and Dean," Dean said in a husky voice from not being used that much. "Our treasure."

Then John understood. Mary used to say that one day they'd get a box, put inside it their most treasured things and blurry it on the backyard to see if someone in the future ever found it. John used to laugh and say that it didn't make any sense since they were never going to leave that house and when they did they'd be dead, so where was the point.

"Sam and Dean will be here," she used to say and she had promised Dean that they'd do it when Sammy was older so he could remember also and put a treasure of his own in the box.

John took a deep breath to steady himself and patted Dean's head a faint smile coming to his lips. "Yes," he said. "I'll bury it for you and Sammy."

Dean smiled and then pointed at John and then at the box. "Yes, Dean, I'll put my treasure there too."

Picking up the rusted box he entered his black Chevy and drove to the remains of his what had once been his home. He would take the box to their burned house, but instead of burying it, he would just leave it inside. It made more sense, after all, it was Mary's treasure, it should be with her.

He stopped the Impala right on the front lawn. He hadn't wanted to return to that house ever but Missouri had made him go with her to "feel" what had been there. And it was evil, she had said, more powerful than anything she had ever felt. Now he was returning for the last time, just because he had promised Dean.

Leaving the car he moved towards the burned front door, yellow police tape around it delimiting a crime scene. John at this point didn't much care. He pulled it until it snapped and went through. He didn't dwell, he was there just for one thing and the smell of death was still very fresh in his memory.

Descending the stairs to the basement, the only part of the house that was untouched by the fire, John clutched the box against his chest.  He hadn't opened it yet and he wasn't sure he wanted to see what Dean had put inside it.

The basement was dark without any electricity, and the flashlight he had gave him little light. It was almost empty, he had taken everything out of there with the help of some neighbors, so what was left were some pieces of darkened timber laying around, and the old windows that they had substituted a few years before and had kept them John wasn't sure what for.

He looked around trying to find a place to leave the box. There on the far corner where the windows were against the wall, it looked to John like a good place to hide their treasure. He crossed the basement and knelt setting the box on the floor, before hiding it. There was still one piece of the treasure missing. He was almost forgetting his own. John grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and took the picture he had of himself and Mary on their honeymoon. He took one last look at it. They had been so happy then at the beach, the whole future ahead of them. So many plans they had. a new car that John had totally fallen in love with, a black Chevrolet, and Mary had given in because the car was just John - decorating the new house, to have three kids minimum.

John closed his eyes shutting the tears that were threatening to spill from his eyes, and at the same time to try and burn that image in his mind. He could almost hear the ocean, the smell of the beach, and Mary's carefree laughter.

Opening the box John saw a multitude of items inside. Right on top of it was a card that Dean had made with the help of Mary for Father's Day, it said "Dad" in big colored letters. There were also several pictures, some toys. Stuff that Dean had collected from the things that had survived the fire, others he had probably kept there before. He had a feeling that Mary had already been preparing that treasure box for some time. He put his picture among the others, not wanting to see what other things were inside it. Whatever it was it was the past, and the future was what mattered.

Closing the box, John hid it behind the windows. He got up, dusting his knees and took a deep breath. Taking one last look around and one last glance at the place where the box was, he left climbing the wooden stairs, out of the basement and then out of his burned house.

It was time to pick Dean and Sammy, John patted his black Chevy, and got inside it, not wanting to linger in that place anymore. They had nothing left for them there. What was ahead of them was a long road, a hard fight, and John would face it, just like he always faced everything in his life. The past was just like that box, rusty, old and hidden, not forgotten but there for someone to find.  



End file.
